


lose my head for you

by richardsikensbathmat



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Help me I cannot stop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 10:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19766296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richardsikensbathmat/pseuds/richardsikensbathmat
Summary: Sam lingers. Jev used to do it, hovering around in places he thought he’d find various types of sympathetic company, sometimes like a glamorously morose streetwalker and other times as the pathetic john willing to pay just about anything.





	lose my head for you

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly wrote this on my phone after Some Wines so apologies in advance for uhhhh all of it.
> 
> Title is from Blow That Smoke by Major Lazer & Tove Lo

Sam lingers. Jev used to do it, hovering around in places he thought he’d find various types of sympathetic company, sometimes like a glamorously morose streetwalker and other times as the pathetic john willing to pay just about anything. 

He doesn’t like doing it - it’s fucking stupid, he is not a kicked-puppy Red Bull reject whose head’s turned into a grief-jumble of unformable fury. He’s an adult man who’s got other responsibilities - he’s got to take his kids to football practice and worry about the mortgage and be sensible and go and eat some broccoli sprinkled with nutritious and sponsor-approved protein powder. 

Not lurk around the closing track with his hat pulled low like he’s waiting to assassinate something. Anything. Maybe himself.

This year hasn’t been going well - well, it has. But then it absolutely hasn’t and there’s a sort of screaming buildup ache at the edge of his brain like every retirement has been shoring up a cliff of rubble soon to crush him with the kind of migraine you can't get up from. 

He’s abused the BOSS account to get his glasses readjusted twice but there’s still some kind of warning pinch at the bridge of his nose, everything winding up tension like a sneeze that won't happen, like it needs to escape. 

Sam has never been terrific at escapology, himself. He's grounded, sensible, when he takes risks they're calculated against skill and knowledge not the sort of wild thing people who don't have to worry about consequences do. 

Jev, on the other hand, is an artist at it. If you need someone to lock something up, break it out, exile it again and then come back with an army then Jev could do it in three pairs of handcuffs and a strait jacket. And probably be into it, somehow. 

And he likes an audience - or accomplice - which is why he used to linger around garages and dinners and hotel lobbies, waiting for someone to suggest ah, one last drink or an invite to a room or the offer of a quiet chat that would make something darkly glitter in Jev's eyes when he, _naturellement,_ accepted. 

Sam doesn't think he can pull the look off. He's more sort of a blunt cheeky wink - ooh matron yes Robin does like Antonio behind him, that sort of thing - than the brooding promise of hidden worlds you could get a brief and frightening glimpse of. 

Which makes it all the stupider he's trying out Jean-Eric's shitty sad boy routine, lurking under a Parisien street lamp like a proverbial orphan. Except the thing dying on him is his championship chances and he feels like he can't moan to anyone about that because it's a bit pathetic, really. Get your head together, Birdy. 

It’s blatantly going to rain again, imminently. Something about the way the sky’s moodier than him and even the Seine’s giant seagulls - as big as, yet somehow more sophisticated than the one’s back in Poole - look like they’re battening down the hatches to lurk around waiting for unsuspecting _frites-_ holders to mug. A highly relatable situation, from the point of view of a driver standing soggily waiting to see if his ex-teammate could be interested in doing something self-destructive or if he’s moved on from that.

He's so preoccupied in thinking how stupid he's being that a looming shape doesn't quite notice as real outside his thoughts until André is right there. This isn't the Techeetah driver he wanted. 

"Hey." Andre says it with a smirk in the tone, like he knows exactly how pathetic Sam is feeling. It's not the German's fault he's obnoxiousness personified but Sam just _doesn't like him._ Especially here, in Paris - it all feels like a big, terrible metaphor for things he’s not even jealous over, just wants a sense of privacy about, with Jev.

"Oh hello." He goes for a tight sort of acknowledgement before looking back down at his phone like he's just standing outside a rival garage, in the drizzle, hunched into his coat, completely by coincidence. 

"He's gone already, you know." 

Sam's got a good reaction for this one because, yes, he realises if André is on his own Jev must have snuck off earlier and really what the fuck was he even expecting, there's a whole entourage these days. 

He looks up, exasperated, "Who's gone?" 

André openly laughs, "Jev, that's who you're waiting for isn't it?" 

Sam can act dumb when he wants, gesturing at his phone "What? No. Do you mind, I'm trying to sort this."

It's not even like he _was_ waiting for JEV _per se_ , all the expectation and anticipation was totally, selfishly internal. And it annoys Sam that André sees straight through him, even though his flimsy anger is stupider than just being here in the first place. 

“Sure.” The German has this deep, bassy drawl when he wants to be sarcastic - which as far as Sam can tell is 100% of the time, although maybe that’s just particularly for him. 

“Look, it’s not-” Sam cuts himself off, realising he’s not just huffing theatrically but losing his temper for real, which would be the icing on the idiocy cake here, the next part coming out deflated rather than furious at least, “It’s not your business, whatever.”

He’s a few near-stumbling steps over slippery lines of wiring and half-covered kerbs away before he hears André call, “Just text him, he’s at the BOSS thing” as though Sam wants any kind of sensible advice right now. 

Ok, he’s embarrassed himself to the person on the grid who, bluntly, he’d least want to right now. He’s slightly damp, he ought to go back to his hotel - ought to already _be_ back at his hotel having a shower and getting ready for… being a normal person instead of brewing up an internal storm that’ll only destroy stuff he cares about. Like his reputation, his results, his mood - and the temptation to say _that’s already happened_ is a direct echo of a past Jean-Eric he used to tell off like a little child for it.

It seems stupid to even compare himself to that - he’s had a bad season, a bad few races, not some kind of nervous breakdown. But there’s an internalised, lonely madness beginning to beckon him like vertigo on a spiral staircase and it’s not like Sam’s _immune_ to that kind of thing, if anything he’s just acutely aware of it enough to head it off before it becomes that big.

André's not the problem. He’s a liability on track and Sam’s tried not nurse a deep wound from Hong Kong - there’s being penalised off the podium and finding out they actually pushed to make it worse. They’re his old engineers and Jev’s fucking team. And Rome kicked his ass and put Lotterer in the limelight and now Paris has done it again and everyone’s like “ _oh, when will André get the win he deserves?”_ and he’s just walked straight into a fucking metal fence. 

It slightly winds him - or at least, clangs off his shins enough to be confusing, the concrete blocks it’s slotted into making it bounce back for a second go. The way any good opponent should. 

Grubbing on the wet tarmac to pick up his tree-pollen-smeared phone, thankfully otherwise intact, he realises this has gone quite far enough. Time for a sensible dinner, alone if he has to and then he can go home and see Hollie and the boys and the dog and stop behaving like a fucking moron. 

\-----

When it was bad - which was basically all the time - Jev had made Sam his b-line. Whenever he didn’t pay enough attention, they ended up clashing on-track or in the garage, terrible wounded things coming out of Jean-Eric’s mouth as Sam tried to be diplomatic, lick his own hurts somewhere else as though he wasn’t bothered.

And Sam would pick the pieces up. Smooth it out with the team - or at least try to - and lie about where Jev was. Or, more often than not, where they both were and what they were doing. _Just been in the gym, that’s why you couldn’t find either of us in our hotel rooms, think Jev just needs some water because we went for a run_.

It’s not that he per se needs any of that - he’s not planning on going fully off the rails - it’d just be nice to have someone with whom so much explaining for so many things has happened already that neither of them needs to bother anymore. Then there’s another, particular, ache that Jev was so good at taking care of when both of them were too stressed to emotionally function with other people, too. 

It’s not like he can just get that anywhere, anymore. He’s very happy with his boundaries and not bringing the dark, soupy trash-liquid at the back of his brain home is one of them he’s been able to keep to, until now.

He rolls over on the bed, lying in the half-twilight of curtains he couldn’t be bothered to close because it’s only 8pm and the halogen of the bathroom lights through the crack of the door. He’s still fully dressed, like he’s waiting for a call-up. His _brain’s_ definitely still on high alert.

Partly because this train of thought is dangerous. Sam hasn’t slept with Jev for over a season, since _Jeandré_ became a thing and if that’s what he wants right now he’s not even sure he could get it. They’d just fucked around - spending too long in bed getting each other off when they should have been at the airport, Jev like a whirlwind that rifled through his bedsheets and indulged Sam as much as the reverse. 

He knows what Jev looks like - pale, with high colour on his then-skinny cheekbones, some transcendent expression glazing his eyes as he _grabs_ \- when he’s come twice already and Sam’s stroking his balls, telling him he can go once more before they get called for dinner. How it feels to drag Jev into his lap, a wiry, tense weight over Sam’s thighs. The scruffy falls of his hair, when it was really long. The way they were something for each other to cling to.

Jev isn’t like that now and that’s good. Doesn’t need to crawl into Sam’s bed and needily beg for attention, even as Sam gladly gave it. He’s got whatever’s going on with the seemingly four or five people he’s constantly surrounded by and it’s not that they don’t have their moments, that Jev doesn’t light up when Sam appears, that they’re no longer close - it’s just that this particular thing, this dark mood he’s in, would have been so easy to seek out Jean-Eric to deal with a few years ago and now it’s just all on Sam. 

He’s subconsciously fiddling with the hem of his own shirt, wanting someone else to take it off. Insistent, bony fingers to dip below the waistband, wordlessly asking for closeness that Sam would obviously give. 

At the time it had felt a lot like the exchange was one-sided, that Sam was propping Jev up and fishing him out of holes and dusting him down and wanking him off to cheer him up. But in reality he'd been glad every time Jev showed up (or was found) and he had 70kg of sloppy, sad octopus to wrangle, delighted to play with someone who wasn't going to tell him off about this, at least. 

That was the past. No need to live in it or even indulge in secret pornographic flashes of it, like the emotional version of a burlesque show he'd find a bit too boring and classy if Jev actually made him go to one. 

Sam doesn't get stumble-drunk in a search for affection, he doesn't fuck himself up just to make it impossible to refuse help and he needs to stop thinking about Jev and remember he's _himself._

Just. Sometimes it'd be nice again. Well, not nice - soothing in the way the odd inadvisable late night whisky is until you're in bed and the room is spinning and your mouth feels nuclear. 

He rolls over again to where his phone's plugged in to ask Robin if he's finished having dinner with Antonio yet and finds a text from Jev instead. 

_André said you are looking for me? Is he joking?_

Sam's not sure how to respond to that. That it can't possibly be true that Sam's looking for Jev? That Andre's enough of a git about him that Jev assumes this is somehow a piss take? That Jev thinks Sam's such a sad act for genuinely looking for him that he can't believe this shit? 

Or option D, Jean-Eric's English gets amazingly lazy on WhatsApp. 

Well whatever, two can play silly buggers and it shouldn't but it makes Sam feel a bit better to have something to play off. 

_Non. Pas de worry your new hair plugs about it._

His phone vibrates before he's even melodramatically chucked it at the mattress while sighing. 

_No hes joking?_

_No your not looking for me?_

_I went to the boss thing I thought you were? ??_

_U can come_

Excitable, chatty, definitely the earnest type of tipsy and clearly a bit eager. Sam can already picture the scene, like an old school kitchen sitcom at a gala dinner table, where Jev asked if anyone had seen him and André drawled out the news he’d been desperately waiting to deliver, a lurid blow of finding some sad hanger-on behind the garage issued like an emotional nosebleed.

And Jev - bless Jev, he’s horrible but also Sam wouldn’t have invited any of his other former teammates to his wedding - wouldn’t have reacted the way André wanted. He would have fumbled for his phone to fire off a message, hushing himself out of the conversation because _actually_ he is quite dependable, in his own weird, flighty, French way. 

_Later - tell me where you are_

Sam feels himself exhale a breath he’d been holding like he was doing a gym exercise, a test in mental stamina. And relax. 

There’s some breathing space - Jev is probably bumming cigarettes off Carl and kissing Lorene in the sickeningly soppy way he does. Sam suddenly really fancies a glass of wine, a solitary warm up to whenever _later_ is and he knows there’s something in the minibar. 

Normally, he’d judge ‘drinking something out of a plastic bottle in the minibar, alone in a mostly-darkened room’ to be clear evidence he’s in the grip of a severe mental crisis. But this actually feels like the opposite, like he’s pulling himself out of whatever horrible slump he’d fallen into back there with the completely normal proposition of pre-gaming a bit before he sees a Jev who’s clearly jump-started him in those stakes.

Unsticking the fridge seal he has to clink around a bit past the miniature beers and tiny bottles of vodka, finds a perfectly acceptable (by his standards, probably not Jev’s) half-bottle of wine and even, miracle of all miracles, a stemmed glass to drink it from. Vive la Paris, you wouldn’t get this in the Premier Inn near Donington. 

He settles back on the bed, staring at reflections of a nearby arty, neon barsign in the dark TV. Moving to the minibar made him brush against the curtains while he was fiddling with the cupboard and he must have brushed aside the gauzy modesty one, letting Paris show him a strip-tease garter of itself. The wine is cold, nice (as far as he can tell - not too sweet, not too acrid) and Sam suddenly feels enormously content, like a total inversion of the nearly-crawling-out-of-his-skin earlier.

There’s a warning, he knows, in the fact just a few texts from Jev can swing things so much - a loneliness that speaks to something bigger and more upsetting. But right now he’s had half a glass of wine and should really change before he goes out again, pulling his shirt over his head and shucking his jeans, security pass still safely looped on the belthook, down his thighs to lie back in his pants and socks.

Semi-naked, with a glass of wine and a nice, neon view, in the dark and quiet, is actually a very pleasant way to spend time. So pleasant, in fact, that by the time he’s pottering over for a top up he’s in quite a frisky mood, finds himself wiggling a bit in the walk across the room. 

He toes off his socks, once he’s back cushioned in the pillows, feeling half-hidden in the dark room. It’s easy enough for his fingers to stray to the waistline of his underwear, dipping below until he can tug his cock out for a few slow, luxurious strokes. 

_Luxurious,_ as a concept, gives him an idea - a sort of ‘what would Jev do’ moment, except without the risk of auto-asphyxiation or whatever godawful thing Jean-Eric is into. Sam puts the wine glass down and flips open the bedside cabinet where, yes, he keeps lube - it helps with chafing and he’s allowed.

Shoving his underwear all the way off, soft, body-warmed fabric catching round his feet in a strange, sensual rub, he lies back fully and drips just a bit onto his fingers. God, it’s been ages, this might be a terrible, terrible idea but he suddenly really _wants_ it and that’s better than feeling numb and terrible about the race, so.

If asked, Sam would say that he isn’t that madly keen on being fucked in the arse. It’s not that it’s never happened or that he wasn’t absolutely delighted when Hollie suggested pegging but it’s just not an essential bit of sex, for him. Circumstantially great but he can take it or leave it. 

He’s not quite sure what circumstances ‘mildly tipsy, emotionally unstable and alone’ are but if he was hoping to get out some vulnerability then the cold shock of his own finger tip against his asshole is like a targeted shot. It’s really good and slightly wrong and it makes him tremble a bit, tensing too much at the indulgence of it all. 

Forcing himself to relax, to lean back into the pillows and flop his legs open like some louche, Parisien whore, he fists his cock with his left hand. It’s all wrong and makes it feel like someone else is touching him and it’s _really_ dirtily good. He’s surprised how easy it is to slide a finger into himself, takes a moment to work out if he’s enjoying the sensation yet as he pumps his dick a few times. 

Jev, by comparison, fucking loves this. Sam has no idea who the first person to fuck him was (it _can’t_ have been Ricciardo) but they clearly did a good job because literally no one has ever been that enthusiastic to - he grips his cock for a second, working a second, oily finger in and being reminded of both having it done to him and doing it to others in a feedback loop hot enough to hide the slight burn.

No one, in the history of sex - or Sam having sex, anyway, which is admittedly shorter than the entire of humanity’s but he only has his own experience to survey - has ever wanted his cock in them more. Jean-Eric would get breathless at the idea, impatient and open and intimate while Sam fingered him and then languid, almost sated from the moment he fucked into him. 

And god, it was too intense and weird to be something he wanted every day. Much too fucked up to be the basis for anything more than what it was but fucking Jev was really, really good. Just being desired that intensely by someone so cat-picky, particular about himself and then such a _slut_ for Sam any time one or both of their sadness cycles got in sync with a race weekend. Or a random meetup. A birthday party they might not have gone to if the other one wasn’t there. 

God he misses that slutty, filthy motherfucker and he misses the dirty escape of staying up too late and sleeping too little and fucking each other’s secrets out into the sordid safety of sheets they didn’t need to wash themselves. Fuck, god - he shoves his own fingers deeper, looking for that ...ohhh, yes, that spot.

It’s not that they only did it one way round. Sam’s a gentleman and also a competitor and he wants a piece of anything anyone else is that into and Jev gives as good as he takes. Fuck, he’d never had anyone go down on his arse before - or since, it’s just too disgusting to ask anyone who isn’t literally _begging_ to do it - and Jev just made it all seem ok, funny, intimate, friendly, sulky, sexy - anything really, that made it keep happening.

Keeping happening is not something this wank is likely to, which is absolutely fine because he probably ought to put on a nice shirt and see if he can’t get a bit of the action back from fucking _André._ The thought of whom isn’t even enough to put him off working both hands faster, a familiar ache-build pitting somewhere in the middle of his hips and exploding, fantastically and stickily as Sam remembers biting Jean-Eric’s neck while he fucked him. 

He should feel disgusting, lying in a slightly sweaty pool of himself and flecked with spunk, lube-sticky hand reaching for the tissue box. But Sam doesn’t - he doesn’t feel anything, in fact, other than quite nice and like he’s going to enjoy the rest of his glass of wine, a slightly pissed shower, a vodka and tonic in the bar and then whatever and wherever Jev is. 

\-----

The ‘wherever’ is easy. Uber is even on discount this weekend, so that saves him trying to work out the Metro when he’s feeling much too wound up with anticipation. 

Sam watches Paris out the window and thinks dumb stuff about being on Jev’s streets, in his home and invited. He's still a bit glowy from the wank earlier, almost like Jean-Eric had actually been involved rather than just a figment of his own imaginative memory, and it's making him feel relaxed and a bit sexy still, like he fancies himself a bit now. 

That will probably help, if he's going to try and infiltrate the mysterious free love circle in the Techeetah garage. Which he'd like to, probably. But not with all of them - and _definitely_ not Lorene or Carl. Absolutely no to André. 

So actually what he wants is to just somehow get Jev alone. Well, Tom Cruise did make Mission:Impossible a plausible ambition for short blokes. 

It is, predictably, achingly trendy in the bar which is the kind of thing he just _cannot_ take seriously. Sam tries not to get the giggles when UV filtering through an ice sculpture, wreathed in dry ice and gorgeous, lights up some guy's white shirt and briefly reminds him of scummy local clubs and Dave Pearce's Dance Anthems. 

Jev and the love-in are in VIP because of course and he finds Jean-Eric sprawled open-legged on a couch, playing with the ice cubes of some Grey Goose he's sipping while insisting to Alejandro that Stolichnaya is better. 

"I work with Russians, it's true!" 

"I wouldn't take drink tips off Petrov, mate." Sam says it quietly enough he almost wonders if they didn't hear over the David Guetta beat, sitting down quietly and delighted to realise none of the other three are there. 

"You look good" Jev says, immediately and much too breathily for in front of the series CEO for anyone but him to get away with. He's moved his glass down to his crotch, propping it in between his legs in a way that's probably unconscious but looks more suggestive than a strip tease. 

Sam can't help staring. He tries to at least not lick his lips. 

"Saaam!" Alejandro looks a little glazed, "You did no come to the BOSS thing, are you sulking?" 

"No, no - just doing my own thing. Like to see a bit of the city." He covers the lie by leaning across to pour himself a drink, something sparking in his stomach by the way Jev leans in too, seeming almost hypnotised. 

"Ah but you come for the party! Skip the boring bits, cunning strategy," ugh, Sam didn't really need an ebullient CEO reminding him of strategy - or lack thereof. 

"Sam is always clever." Jev reaches straight across the table to say it, entwining their fingers like he can sense Sam's four seconds either way between a breakdown and an orgasm. 

If it surprises Alejandro - and it probably shouldn't - he doesn't show it, smiling proudly at them like they're his favourite sons at this particular moment. "Have fun, look after each other." 

It's a slightly odd, but in-character, note to stumble away on but Sam can't waste mental energy on drunk bosses when he's got Jev exactly where he wants him. Well, kind of, bar a few too many clothes. 

Jev speaks low, a little slurred. "I'm glad you came."

"I wouldn't have, if you weren't here." No time to waste on dissembling. 

Jev looks a little taken aback, lips parted wetly in a ridiculous pantomime of shock that somehow still makes Sam's dick twitch. God he _really_ needs this itch scratched, Jean-Eric's fingers feeling hot between his. 

He's easily enough alcohol down to be thinking about raising them to his mouth, just going straight for obscene seduction, when the rest of them show up. 

"Ooh, are we interrupting?" André's expression is gleefully combative and Sam tightens his fingers when Jev goes to pull his away, Carl snapping a photo of them on his phone. 

"Yes." Sam hopes he sounds dry and cool, rather than a bit desperate. 

"That's OK, carry on," Lorene laughs as she sits down next to Jev, leans against his shoulder and presses a kiss to his cheekbone. It's warm and friendly, saying there are no secrets here and Sam thinks she absolutely means it. But he isn't there. 

He lets go of Jev's hand, sits back and exits the scene by a foot and a half or so of hostile airspace. Carl and Lorene are clearly happy to share and whether André is or not is immaterial because it turns out Sam can't. He needs someone to spill his innermost angst all over like a slopping glass, messy and out of control, not the complicated choreography of a desperately elegant sex cabal. 

André is showing off, walking his fingers up Jev's body to make his teammate lie back, let his shirt get untucked for a ravaging with an ice cube that Sam has to look down at his drink for. He remembers doing that in sweaty, filthy Buenos Aires where he wasn't sure if he wanted to screw Jev because he was so glad the stupid fuck was alive or just head for some sexy death pact together because Sam couldn't take it getting a single atom more fucked up. 

He hasn't wanted Jev this badly for a very long time. He'd settled himself out of the equation - hell, he'd got _married_ and that was surely the end of it. But now movements he can only see reflected dimly in his glass, fractured around the vodka and remains of the ice cubes, are getting him miserably hard. Is it so much to ask for your friend back every now and again? Just on loan? 

Probably. He can see buttons being undone and he should fuck off, go see if Alex or Gary is around or something. Carl grabs at his thigh, a hot palm on Sam's inner leg _much_ too close to his dick, when he gets up to escape and for a second he thinks about it, about just joining the orgy but it's not what he wants and he knows it. He shrugs while he's shaking his head, tilts his glass to them all with a jaunty grin as they go about a bunch of stuff you definitely aren't allowed to do in public. 

God, he feels criminally pathetic. He'd left his arse a bit lubed up in the shower, wanting it to be straightforward if he could convince Jev to fuck him. He's not sure he wants it the other way around, comparison to André or Carl too acute. 

Now he just has a slightly damp bum, some strategic trouser rearrangement and a burning resentment. Fine, he's lost Jev, he's going to have to find someone else to make his occasional horrible life choices with or, god forbid, sort his life out like an adult. 

He's just settling deeply into brooding when he arrives at the bar, which is a bad place to be feeling sad and self-destructive. Maybe he really _is_ turning into Jev, suddenly desperate to get a dick up his arse and lurking around like a groupie. 

"You don't join in with-" Alejandro gestures to where they just were with his glass of something amber and expensive-looking, "-that?"

"Not for me." Sam can't suppress the frustrated sigh, "British, innit."

For one mad, desperate moment he wonders if he's fucked up enough to ask the CEO to screw him in the toilets. He definitely isn't, which is probably a good thing. 

Alejandro chuckles at him like Sam's a quaint curiosity, "Ridiculous, he's always been a complete - how you say? Like a puppy who wants you to scratch it."

That isn't how you say anything, although Sam gets what he means. "Yeah well, think he might have new owners."

Sam catches himself, breathes out a bit heavily and tries to catch a bartender's attention to avoid having to look at Alejandro, "It's good for him, I can't be angry about seeing him happy after all that stuff." 

It's true. If he is frustrated, it's only with himself for apparently not having moved on as much as Jev has. Who the hell goes to an after party hoping to get fucked for fuck's sake? 

" _Everything_ is good for you in the right amount." Alejandro looks much too serious for a man who's just spilt probably at least twenty euros worth of drink on his tie. 

"Mmm." Maybe that's Sam's problem, he's got an angsty motherfucker deficiency. 

He doesn't expect the hands on his waist, although maybe should have realised Alejandro's smile turning more devilish than drunk must have been apropos something. "You were looking for me."

Jev's nose is in his hair and Sam daren't turn round because if his body doesn't betray him then his face definitely will. He can feel the buttons of Jev's shirt, all disarrayed and done up wrong, against his back and there's a damp coolness seeping up his spine. Neither of those is as hope-inspiring as the semi tucked against the top of his arse, though. Oh fuck they really _could._

"Thought you were with the Woodstock lot." Sam takes a big sip of whatever the stuff in the glass in front of him is, not remembering ordering it. 

"The who?" It's almost very, very funny but Sam definitely can't be bothered to explain the joke. 

"You know, your posh, arty sex team." God Sam wants him so, so badly right now but he has to be certain this isn't an invite to that, before he gets his hopes as well as his dick up. 

"They can keep each other company." Thank _christ_ Jev is as perceptive as he is annoying. 

"Right." it's doesn't come out sarcastic, as JEV reaches round him to steal some of the mystery drink. "Cool, shall we go somewhere else?" 

Jev laughs low and dirty next to his ear and he surely _knows_ it isn't like Sam to be this brazen but he's well past the point where going home and fucking himself is going to do the slightest thing for the storm brewing inside him. 

" _Bien sur._ " The laughter's still there in Jev's tone and it's with him, in sluttish delight, not at the sorry state of Sam. If he wasn't already married he'd consider Jean-Eric, in that instant. 

There aren't a lot of options for _elsewhere_ in the confines of a club so Sam's really _willing_ the toilets not to be too trendy to have doors or whatever. 

"Do you have lube? I don't.. Have any on me." Of course Jev doesn't because he has Carl and André for that. But fortunately Sam has thought this through. 

"I've got some, you're fucking me." The sharp intake of excited breath is very ego-soothing, as he drags Jean-Eric through the bathroom door and virtually slams the stall lock into place behind them. 

"I missed you," Jev looks sweet, open and also extremely horny which is absolutely everything Sam wanted, drinking in the state of a man whose shirt is a long-lost cause and whose suit trousers are doing nothing to hide it. 

"Fuck, I missed you too but I just-" Sam panics for a moment, babbles it out, "-look, I didn't mean to interrupt and I know I used to bitch at you when you turned up half-cut wanting to get fucked but just indulge me?" 

Jev doesn't reply, just - god, yes, incredible, Sam loves him - crowds him against the tiled wall and sticks his tongue down Sam's throat. It's hot and dirty and _exactly_ what he wants. Needs. 

Jev's fingers are already everywhere, undressing him as Sam tries not to gratefully whimper too much. He has the wherewithal to extract the lube from his jeans before Jev pushed them down and the hot air between them feels like imminent sensation overload on his balls. 

Jev's fingers, it turns out, feel even better as he pushes a hand between sweat-damp thighs and Sam feels every hair on his body stand up. He has to awkwardly shuck a shoe off to free one leg and wrap it round Jev's waist to let him reach further, slick fingers tracing over Sam's crack and spreading around his hole. 

It's too much, he has to close his eyes and look away before Jev gazes all intense at him because he needs this and also might cry or something weird and embarrassing. It's just the right flavour of fucked when Jev gently kisses his neck while roughly fingering him, hushing Sam every time he tries to bite back a sound until Jev just gives up and kisses him, the only noises suddenly wet and obscene. 

"Condom," Sam manages to mutter while grabbing a breath, hoping it spurs Jev on a bit because this isn't the time or place for doing it slow. Jev nods against him, goes in for another deep kiss while rustling about with something and Sam realises he hasn't even touched him back. 

"I really," Jev hoists him a bit against the wall and Sam goes with it, tilting his hips to make the angle easier. "Really fucking miss you."

It's punctuated obscenely by the soft, wet sound of Jev getting into him and Sam's sharp breath that could be, frankly, in response to either the words or dick. Probably both, he's feeling a bit _everywhere_ in the best way and it's enough to make him rest his head against Jev and mumble, "Fuck, I miss you too."

He can feel Jean-Eric smiling against his forehead and for a second it all feels much too affectionate for a bathroom fuck but then Jev moves and this is it, this is what he wanted. Muttered encouragement falls easily between them to do it harder, to make each other come. His dick is wet against the shirts they shouldn't really still be trying to wear but the bathroom floor probably wouldn't treat them any kinder and Jev is hot and strong and solid in every way Sam needs him to be. 

"God," Jev sounds more than a bit wrecked, "yes, let me fuck you."

It's somehow, despite the fact Jev very clearly _is_ fucking him, a really obscene request and Sam feels himself suddenly teetering on the edge "Fuck, yes - please."

Jev growls and its all over moments later, leaves them panting to the sound of a torrential urinal piss across the room. Sam can't help laughing silently and more than a bit giddily against Jev's chest as they disentangle, imagining it's André. 

Jev smiles ruefully as he's flushing the condom, "Probably shouldn't leave together."

"Yeah-" Sam has to hop a bit to get his trousers back on, "I'm definitely done for the night." The allure of a shower and a heavy, untroubled sleep is very strong right now. 

Jev kisses him gently, turns it into a quick play fight before he leaves Sam to clean up as much as he can given it turns out there's no loo roll. 

Once he's as respectable as he's likely to get he pushes the stall door open, to find André propped against the basin, leaning on the mirror and scrutinising him. 

"You could have just come to play, no one gets him to themself."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. Sorry for borrowing your boyfriend or whatever you guys even are? Actually our long and sordid history means I have and seemingly will again get him to myself more than you ever will? He goes with a nonchalant and annoying shrug, channelling the memory Jev he seems to be emulating tonight. 

He doesn't let André get in the way of him washing his hands - and if he sprays the tap a bit more than usual it's not particularly an accident. "I'm not stealing him."

André laughs oddly warmly at that, "No, I think he can only be borrowed."

"I don't - this wasn't about you. It's me. I want - oh, I don't know, let's never have this conversation." Sam's half tempted to bury his face in his wet hands. 

"OK. Fine with me." André shifts, walking louchely away, "If you hit my car again I'll consider it personal, though."

"Christ you are such a _drama quee-_ " The door cuts Sam off and he realises he's a fine one to talk, slinks off to a taxi rank and a somewhat uncomfortable ride to his extremely comfortable bed. 

Whatever André thinks, he feels much better as he sinks into the pillows again. Sometimes you just need to check you've got your keys for a sense of security. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
